


This Moment Between Us

by PlainPaper



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, One Shot, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:26:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28595442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainPaper/pseuds/PlainPaper
Summary: What if Jon seeks Sansa after learning of his lineage?
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 39
Kudos: 168





	1. Needle Knighting

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this a shot that could happen before my other work on them, 'Tender Moments'. A scene where they met after Jon learned of his true parentage, what if he sought her kind of thing. I love this pairing so much and I guess it is a form of honing my writing skill too or simply an excuse to write, about them, again. 
> 
> Hope you are entertained and I choose not to add this as another chapter of Tender Moments because that story is finished as it is. Perhaps more one-shots coming, perhaps not. 
> 
> Oh, Happy New Year everyone! Here's hoping for a year that makes sense to all of us. 
> 
> Happy Reading!

She massaged her temple, throbbing from the exchanges with the Dragon Queen earlier that day. She reminded the Queen of her reckless behavior of burning wagons of food that would have put an ease to the burden of trying to think of a thousand ways to ration what little Winterfell have when there were so many empty bellies waiting to be fed in return of servitude. The Queen seethed on how she had been benevolent, leaving Cersei to breathe another day and came so far north to aid what she had specifically referred to as Jon’s war. Sansa groaned, pulling her thick night shift over her head, her damp hair she let loose, only the crackle of the fire in the hearth filled up her empty chamber.

Her teeth grazed the tip of her right thumb, her left hand resting against her belly, her back pressed against the back of her chair, feeling the wood carving branded against her marked body as she stared at nothingness, recalling her mistake of mentioning North’s independence when the discussion had been thick with suspicions.

_I should not have done that. One at a time Sansa. One at a time._

_We do not even know if she lives after the battle with the undead._

_Or any of us._

She mulled over the possibilities of Daenerys Targaryen perished on the battlefield. It would have been devastating yet it would make things a tad easier - Jon could remain King. But it would have left them outnumbered, vulnerable even should Cersei choose to strike.

Daenerys and her dragons offered them hope in liberating them from the chain of being roped into being the undead yet tied them forever to a different chain held by a Targaryen, whose father had proven himself to be…not kind, not just, from what Brienne had confided with her. She tried to imagine what could have been should the undead was non-existent. Daenerys would have still called for Jon to bend his knee and should he choose not to, well, those who did not kneel she rather saw them turned ashes. 

Quick.

_The Tarlys._

The joint of her forefinger she brushed lightly against her lips, eyes not blinking, too lost in her thoughts.

_But winter had been harsher this time around, even worse than before when Stannis attacked. Stannis and his forces died of snow, of coldness. We could simply wait it out and let the cold unleashed its jaw and feast on Cersei’s forces._

_If…. if Daenerys dies._

_And even then she has to die at the right time._

She shuddered at the thought, wondering why she was so keen at spelling the poor woman’s death whose most offensive crime was to be loved by someone she cared very deeply for. She worried that Jon would be tossed aside once she was done with him. Toss aside was harrowing on its own but what if she chose to burn him? He was a good fighter but naïve, innocent even towards the stench of political movements where no one as much as acknowledging the existence of the very concept of honour.

A virtue he held true to himself, welded to every surface of his body, spelling the very essence of him.

She rubbed her eyes, expelling the descent of drowsiness as she mulled about her home, her North.

_I want North to be free because Robb wanted North to be free._

_I want North to be free…because my family is torn for being loyal, and this could at least give meaning to the unnecessarily prolonged suffering…_

_I want North to be free, for perhaps I too can finally be free…_

Her scars throbbing, little shackles that bind her to reality.

The rapid knocks on her door lurched her body forward. She looked around, wondering if her heinous thoughts were scattered visibly around her. Evidence. Evidence that she should erase. Relieved that there was none, all safely trapped inside her mind, she took three steps closer to the door wondering who would visit at such an odd hour? Just before she spoke, a figure she would have recognized even in her sleep entered her chamber. His face solemn, even more so than his usual brooding.

“Jon?”

\----------

Jon was rushing. Away from Sam. Away from Bran, the one he had sought after Sam’s wild, baseless lore. Away from the truth of his lineage. He couldn’t comprehend it, wouldn’t comprehend it due to how far removed it was from his best imagination, the stories he cooked up in his own mind, his mother he had imagined differently each time but – _Ned Stark has always been my father!_

He walked with no intention to stop, digesting, denying, re-evaluating everything that had happened including the ifs.

_If only Lady Catelyn knew of the truth would she have been kinder?_

_Would he still insist on taking Black?_

_Would Sansa….?_

The last ‘if’ surprised even himself, stuttering his steps for it was too random and far fetched but it _had_ been different with her. He cared for her more than one should for a sister. He had grabbed everyone he thought unworthy of her by the neck, spewing threats so violent yet were ones he did not regret. One he would have sworn he could maul to death, if only he had not thought that she deserved to be responsible for her tormentor’s end.

_Why?_

There was a sense of overpowering protectiveness he felt towards her – some would have branded as extreme possessiveness even, but he had always redirected it, named it as sibling’s love, sibling’s bond. They still fight, they argued, they did not see eye to eye in everything.

Just the way siblings are.

_But Sansa has never been a sister…even back then._

The heat radiating from his chest slowly move to numb his limbs, his body, before stretching its veins to cover his face, forcing him to remove his cloak, _her_ cloak from his body, folding it half-heartedly before finally trying to make sense of his surroundings.

The two guards at the end of the corridor failed to cover their puzzled look at him, only looking down when he glared at them unintentionally. He turned, facing a door he knew belonged to whom, baffled as to how his feet had led him here of all places. Without thinking, working on his sheer impulse, he rapped his knuckle against the door, not even waiting for her permission to enter.

“Jon?” she called for him, a name he was so convinced as his, before being told his mother had named him different. A name so foreign to him paired with a family name he had never dreamed to be associated with. 

At the sight of her, free from her version of black, heavy layers of armor, he became aware of how young she was still. How innocent she looked and how depraved his thoughts before had been. 

_Sister._

He forced that status, searing it hot inside his skull.

_Always a sister._

He looked down at his feet, shame, unsure of how much he could confide in his sister.

_No. Cousin._

A deep breath, a sense of unknown relief coursing through his body. He returned his gaze at her, concern etched visibly on her face, her palm pressed together in front of her, her fingers intertwined tightly with one another.

“Praying…?” he croaked out, his right-hand gesturing to nothingness.

Her lips curved upward, looking at him silly as if he had suggested something she would have never done.

“Perhaps. Later. What brings you here?” She turned her back at him, pouring a glass of water before handing it to him. He took it as she fished out his cloak from his tight fist, dusting it free from the offensive dirt.

He must have dragged it against the floor. He didn’t notice.

She placed his cloak on the edge of her bed before carrying the chair closer to the hearth, her nimble fingers beckoning him to have a seat. The room was bare, not much she would have wanted to salvage, not after Boltons had marked everything with their awful sigil in the short period of their bloody reign.

He downed the content of the glass, returning it to where it belonged before taking his seat.

“What ails you more than usual, Your Grace?”

“No. Just…just Jon.” 

She had chosen to sit at the edge of her bed, pulling the piece of fur to cover her lap. A good distance between them. But perhaps the desperation in his voice had called for her to stand, pulling the fur with her before sitting on a stool adjacent to him. Fixing it to cover the length of her legs and her bare feet, she proceeded to gather her hair, dividing it into two rivers of copper flowing on each shoulder. She offered him her softest smile, her fingers fluttered barely over his hand before she flung her gaze deep into the fire.

“You miss the shared silence, didn’t you?”

“Silence. Shared. Yes.”

There they were, sitting together, soaking in each other’s presence. Listening to the wind, to the fire. To the heartbeats of one another if only they could come closer, denying the distance between them.

It was Sansa who broke the silence first.

“Forgive me for doubting your decision to….” She left the sentence hanging. It was still hard to swallow its meaning on how easy it was for him to demote himself from King to a mere Warden.

“Kneel.” He filled the blank.

“…..bring her here.” She smiled, teasing him by choosing another way to refer to the same thing. “I understand. But just because I understand, does not make it easier to be…. dealt with.”

He exhaled his answer, sinking further into his seat. “I know.” 

Sansa noticed this, taking it as a sign that he would rather not discuss what had been done. She then moved to address his sudden visit to her chamber. “You look angry when you enter. Why?”

“Because I’m…” Jon paused, unsure of how to proceed. He wasn’t even able to understand the secret as a whole just yet. Must he include another into it? He exhaled his frustration away, deciding that it did not truly matter now.

He could simply die with it.

Buried with it.

He remembered how he had never gotten the chance to truly explain things to Sansa. The things he had to do to convince the Targaryen Queen to join their cause. But as he thought of such, it became very clear to him that he had bedded the only Targaryen left after him.

His aunt.

The realization hit him hard, eyes wild and his chest began to heave his denial of committing such an act with someone so closely related to him. He caught Sansa watching him closely, face etched with curiosity mixed heavily with worry and he spoke the first thing that appeared on his mind.

“Because I’m not a Stark.” Her reaction was immediate, puzzled, eyebrows rose high to the sudden declaration. Jon quickly realized he had to steer her confusion somewhere else. Not when he was not ready to share it with the world. Not when he was more than ready to die with it.

“I steal what should have been your crown. You save us all and I didn’t thank you for that.” He locked his gaze on hers, trying to read her expression towards his apology that came too late; one that should have been addressed even before he left for Dragonstone. He was not shameful to admit that yes, being hailed as King made him feel, finally feel as if he belonged here, in Winterfell.

It made him feel that he was truly a Stark.

When he had descended from such high, guilty was quick to consume him. It was Sansa that had made him King. Sansa, that had saved him from his second death. Sansa that had warned him not to fall for Ramsay’s games, yet he dismissed her because he thought she was inexperienced when it came to war.

He had thought he knew better.

How foolish he was to think about his experience with battles and wars as superior to her wars?

Jon bit the inside of his cheeks, chastising his foolishness. He opened his mouth, readying the words to buy him her forgiveness but she cut him off, her voice low and defeated.

Almost a whisper.

“No one would rally behind a girl with nothing Jon.”

“The Vale-“ he tried to remind her that they had come for her, not him. 

Sansa offered a fleeting smile, almost mocking, “They came because Petyr Baelish told them to come.”

Petyr Baelish. That was another tale that had ended while he was away. One that had not yet been addressed by him with the rest of his…. _siblings? Cousins?_

“Why would anyone come for me? Even Robb knew saving me is not a worthy cause.” Her fingers stroke the fur on her lap into one direction before messing it purposely and began again. Her shoulder dropped and Jon knew, her mind must have been brought her back to King’s Landing for the moment.

“Don’t say that Sansa…”

He reached out but stopped halfway, right hand hovering over her lap before clumsily patting her knee twice. 

She huffed out a forced chuckle at his feeble attempt. Shaking her head, she returned his stare, her gaze turned older, too accepting of being used or being dismissed by others.

Jon cursed everyone that had put her in that position. Every single one, Robb included.

“I don’t blame him, Jon. I blame no one. Look at what I am doing here. Nothing more than an elaborate form of playing house. I clothe, I fed, I arm these people…”

“You think too little of your contribution.”

“That is because it is too few to be counted as a contribution.” She bit her lower lip, buying time, and Jon allowed her that much, waiting patiently for her to continue.

“You rise from the dead. Arya becomes…a fighter. Bran, a magical being of the sort. What did I do? I marry. Like I always want to.”

She laughed after. A broken laugh, the kind that happened when one was drenched with disappointment towards oneself.

Jon kept his silence. He doubted he had anything good enough to alleviate such dreadful emotions from her. He could instead, make it worse should he try. So he stopped. Looking at her, realizing how intense her stare into the fire was before a shadow of determination flickered in her, made apparent by the rise of her cheeks.

She stood up so suddenly that he was quick to be on his feet too, mirroring her.

The determination was now sprinkled with a glint of mischievousness. Her smile grew wider, her mood no more dark and forlorn as she turned to face him properly.

“You said you are not a Stark. I’ll make you a Stark today.” Her voice light, almost giddy.

“How?” he raised his hands, folding them tight against his chest, almost challenging her attempt but in truth just to stop himself from hoping.

“The one thing I do best. Pretend.” She walked away from him, quick rapid steps towards her vanity, rummaging through her small basket as she searched for something. Jon sat himself back on the chair, head down, shameful at the uncalled conclusion his mind had rushed into.

_Why…? Why did I immediately thought of marriage when she said that?_

Her bare feet caught his attention, and he raised his eyes to meet her gaze, effectively forcing him to lean back against his chair. _Too close_. She was standing too close and he saw nothing else but her. Only her, with her small sewing needle, grasped neatly between her thumb and her forefinger.

The youthful giddiness had long but gone. In its place was something regal, belonged more to a Queen than to noble ladies. He cleared his throat, wanting to ask but made silence by her swift movement.

She placed the needle on his right shoulder, and he followed its direction before he looked at her, puzzled by such gesture. Sansa braved on, not explaining but instead continue with what she had in mind.

“In the name of Father and Mother, I charged you as a son.” Jon was taken aback. His breath stolen from him as he tried to stand yet she put more pressure on the thin needle, forcing him to still himself.

She was knighting him, branding him with the name Stark in a way she had always familiarize herself with from all the pretending he had seen her done way before with Robb, with Theon, sometimes himself included. She fought for the relevance of her existence with her needles and for that it felt more intimate than a sword could offer, a much closer distance between them that made him feel as if he were knighted by a Goddess herself.

“In the name of Arya, I charged you as a favorite brother.” Her needle moved to his left shoulder. Jon was made aware of how dry his mouth was, how fast his heart was beating. The way she looked down at him, her hair almost gleaming and her beauty petrified him. Yet he breathed in her presence, gladly drowning himself in this feeling he knew was never appropriate to harbor for someone he insisted as a sister.

“In the name of Robb, Rickon, and Bran, I charged you as equals.”

_Equals…. Equals…._

He repeated the word, over and over, elated by it, glad by her choice of words but something was missing, made obvious when she pulled her hand holding her needle back to her side.

As if the initiation was done and through.

He caught her hand, pulling it close to his chest.

“In the name of Sansa..?”

He waited for it, wondering what word she would choose for herself then. Realizing how she had omitted her name from being paired with Arya. 

A long unbreakable gaze tied them as one and she finally spoke. Voice too soft, beckoning him to stand as he placed her needle flat not on his shoulder but against his beating heart.

Waiting. 

She looked down at their entwined hands. He noticed the rouge on her cheeks getting intense in color, spreading. Her eyelashes fluttered. Her breath hitched.

“I charged you as… family. As Stark.”

He did not know what he expected but he was beyond ecstatic.

_Anything…_

_A family could mean anything…_

\--------

Jon left Sansa’s room, not remembering the things that directed him there in the first place. His mind was at ease, her heart soaring.

_I am a Stark._

_Sansa made it so._

_\-----_


	2. Truest North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is promised to be sent to the furthest North. Sansa chooses not to honour the sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I'm trying my hands on dialogues. This is "What if Jon just stays in Winterfell after slaying the Queen?" I guess I just want to write something. Hope it is ok at least. Thank you for reading these one-shots!

_“You should honour your words to send me to the furthest North.”_

_“I did say such, but I did not specify the origin point.”_

_“Winterfell could be the furthest North if you are from Dorne. Pick the furthest South and I am true to my words.”_

_“Sansa!”_

_“Jon.”_

_“I can’t. I am leaving tomorrow.”_

_“Is the guilt too immense?”_

_“Is the love you bear for her too great that you feel you should punish yourself to such extent? Exile yourself? After everything you have done for the realms?”_

_"It's not just-"_

_“I am the shield that guards the realms of men. You fulfill your oath. Why condemn yourself to the Wall when you have done just that?”_

_“You were so prepared to leave before I arrived at the gate. Why the sudden longing to return when this, Winterfell is your home?”_

_“You could not manipulate things to your whims, Sansa!”_

_“If I have it my way you would have still been a King in the North. If I have it my way I will put you on the Iron Throne, Bran by your side. But I did not have it my way, Jon. To me, you are still my king even now. You did not bend your knee. Not in a manner that made it official.”_

_"Tell me what, who you would offend by staying in your home?"_

_“I kissed her…. before I buried my sword deep when she had only love in her gaze. When she was two arm spans from the throne she never got to sit on. I killed her when she was unprepared, under the pretense of love. What does that make me?”_

_“You think fights are won by mere weapons? People use all that they have and weaponized it. A feast could turn to a bloody battlefield in the span of a shared meal. Men, women used their bodies as currency. Poisons accidentally hang themselves pretty around someone else’s neck. People burn to crisp Jon… the whole lot of them yet you worry about honour?”_

_“Just because everyone does it it’s enough to make it right? To make it acceptable? What is a man without his honour Sansa?”_

_“Human.”_

_“A weak, pathetic, breathing human being, doing all we can to return home. For her, home is the throne. She got just that.”_

_“What is honour, Jon? Eddard Stark dies a traitor when he is the least deserving one. Ser Jaime, branded as Kingslayer when he did what he had to do to save the rest. Honour is a weapon evil wields to silence someone like you.”_

_“I’ll protect you; I promise. Honour that.”_

_“Or leave. Leave your home you have won; you have fought for. Leave the one place you have yearned for so long it aches you to the bone, the mere thought of not being there steal your peace.”_

_“Leave me, the way everyone does.”_

_\---------------_

_He stays._

_The first year he stays to honour the blood spilled to win Winterfell._

_The second-year he stays, waiting for Arya’s return._

_The third-year he stays because Sansa's nightmares have returned with vengeance._

_The fourth-year he stays, irk by the lords mentioning marriage and heir in front of the Queen._

_The fifth-year he stays because he notices how she smiles differently whenever she sees him._

_The sixth year, he stays, for her, for good._

_For she has become his truest North and he will be damned to leave his home._

\--------------


	3. ...blade swung, skin torn, hearts opened...

_ The Third Year He Stays _

“All these while and no one you would want to court?” Sansa asked Jon in passing as they left the main hall after a hearty early day meal. She was putting on her right-hand glove as she spoke; part of her plan of the day involved going out to inspect the newly erected glasshouses. She fished her waist for the other pair, so sure she was she had tucked both on her belt before she left her chamber. Noticing that she was without it, she made a motion to excuse herself from Jon to return to where it was kept. Jon simply followed, walking side by side; he was as good as her sworn shield nowadays.

“Speak for yourself. I’ll find someone when you have found someone.” Replied him to her common subject of teasing these past few months, probably amplified by the whispering of the maids clearly in dire need of distractions in this peaceful time. 

“Why is that?” She tossed a look of concern in his direction, something that he was not expecting from her. Usually, the banter would go back and forth with no ends but her asking him to elaborate put him in a position where he was forced to think of a more satisfying answer.

_Has she found a certain someone and now asking for my blessing? Thinking that it is only fair that I too have found someone else?_

The thought startled his steps, and he was forced to catch up, uttering the only coherent thought he could muster to her out loud.

“I made a promise to you, didn’t I?” eyebrows raised, trying to make sure she was reminded by how close he had stayed to keep her safe.

Sansa smiled her brightest smile, and Jon’s heart fluttered at the sight. “You are free Jon.”

Reeling it back to their easy banter, he was keened to remind her how different her stand was back then. “And yet you weren’t so keen to let me go then. The only reason you say such now because you know I no longer want it.”

A guilty bite on her lips pressed an even darker shade onto it. “Does that make me a terrible person?” her head cocked to the side perhaps waiting for him to place his judgment.

The look forced a halt to his steps as he stared down at his feet, trying to make sense of his erratic reactions.

“Not when I allow it.” As he returned her gaze to meet hers, all while putting his hands on a firm grasp behind his back- a precaution since it was too easy to reach out to pat her shoulder, to tuck in stray hairs of hers these days.

“Go someplace else today.” She spoke.

“Where?”

“Go bring Ghost somewhere he could run.” A suggestion he did not truly wish to abide by. Ghost knew full well how to tire himself during the day and came back before they closed the gate.

“Are you meeting a suitor?” the suggestion was done to jest but it was not done with a good amount of sincerity behind it.

“Yes.” She walked away, and a fresh sense of panic appeared as he walked two steps behind her. “Dozens of them Jon. You’ll scare-“

Her tone was light, but Jon was not sure whether it stemmed from the usual teasing or from the buoyancy love would offer a person. His right hand reached out to her, tugging at her elbow gently.

He needed to see her eyes when she said it again. 

She turned and he could see her gaze was filled with questions before she spoke again.

“No. I’m meeting no one.” He must have had imagined it since her tone was full of assurances.

Jon breathed out a strong sense of relief as he listened to those words strung together. 

They had arrived at her chamber and Sansa sent him a look that reminded him to stay outside. “I shan’t be long,” she spoke before her figure was lost behind the door. Jon stood his guard, but he pushed the door a tad.

For safety.

He lifted his head, stealing an unwarranted glance, out of habits of sweeping a thorough awareness of his surroundings. It was then he saw another figure inside the chamber. He could only see her back and the man was shield by her thick robe. They were talking in a hushed tone and that only served to alert him more. Sansa was signaling him to stay put, her palm facing him yet curiosity pulled him hard, and the sense of danger spreading inside the very chamber tugged at him harder. He sealed his lips. His hand immediately reached for his dagger as he cursed his complacence as to not having Longclaw with him.

He was closed enough to call out for her, closed enough to pull her away from this man reeking with danger but at the exact moment, the intruder had been made aware of his presence and in a flash, he slashed a dagger towards Sansa.

A soft _‘Oh?’_ before he watched her fell unto her knees.

“No!” his utterance was dripping with rage. The grip on the hilt of his dagger became tighter as he launched himself forward and sliced the offender’s neck in one swift motion. Immediately after he turned to Sansa; he did not wait to confirm his death when she needed help fast. 

He knelt next to her. Her eyes were wide, aware of her surrounding as she took off the layers of her attires. The coldness of the North had brought with it a form of protection, delaying the contact of the blade unto her skin. But she was too calm and Jon, Jon could not fathom the origin of such calmness. His breathing was ragged, eyes still seeing red, chest still heaving especially when the long gash on her chest began to drip more blood, seeping through the last two layers of her clothing.

He watched her ardently, as she ran one finger across her bleeding chest, rubbing the red slickness against her thumb as if innocently questioning what it was doing outside its container before lending her gaze to him,

“No need to make a ruckus Jon. Alert Maester Wolkan. He would know what to do.”

\----------

Jon shook his head stubbornly upon the suggestion made by Maester Wolkan for him to be at the other side of the door. Staying at the corner instead of hovering, he watched the two of them speaking to one another in reserved tones. Sansa seemed to be indifferent to the wound, once in a while she nodded to whatever it was said by the maester. Jon looked down, observing the recently scrubbed floor, free from any trace of evidence of the recent attack. The body had been disposed of and Jon had tried his best to adhere to Sansa’s request of ‘not making a ruckus’. If he had it his way he would ransack the whole castle, tipping it upside down to ensure there were no accomplices to the dead man.

He was one of Ramsay’s, seeking to avenge his long-dead lord.

A solitary, wild attempt. One that no one could have predicted.

But still, he blamed himself.

When Jon finally raised his view, Maester Wolkan had packed his kits, looking at him, jutting his chin towards the door. Jon nodded, following him but not before sending a glance at Sansa.

\-------

Maester Wolkan cleared his throat before turning to face Jon. “A flesh wound, nothing new for Her Grace.”

There was a flicker of simmering anger shadowing the lord’s face as he spoke. “Nothing new?”

The master offered him an apologetic look. This was an open secret to those who survived the short Bolton’s reign on Winterfell. The extents of it were kept by the maester himself of course, but the gist was known to all. “The ones imposed by Ramsay Bolton were much more harrowing, to say the least, my lord.” 

He watched the young lord, waiting for the anger to dissipate but moments passed, and it was still there, made evident by the clenched of his jaw. The maester replenished his breaths in a long inhalation, thinking whether it was appropriate the thing that he was about to suggest, but observing how the Queen in North and the young Lord of Stark had been close to one another these past few years, he decided to offer a nudge.

“If I may suggest my lord, it would be helpful should you stay close to her chamber. New wound usually means weeks of night terrors for her.”

The former half-brother now turned cousin was quick to reply. “What would help her usually?”

“Nothing. We were all forced to simply listen.”

\--------

Taking Maester Wolkan’s suggestion to a higher degree, instead of staying closer to her chamber, Jon chose to stay next to her bed. He dragged the chair, so he was as close as possible to her, leaving only to make sure the fire was tended enough so the room remained comfortable for her to rest.

He was about to nod off before her screams rattled his awareness. In the dark, lightly illuminated by the hearth, he hovered over her, wanting to help but not knowing how. It took few tries before she finally wrenched her sight opened and as she slowly recognized his presence, her breathing turned calm once more as she cast her gaze down in what he assumed as embarrassment at being caught fighting her demons.

She asked for a glass of water and Jon rushed, poured it brimming before returning to her side. He stood silently over her, knuckles turning to fists, again and again, waiting for her to speak, waiting for anything.

But she continued taking small sips of water before quietly handing him the still half-full glass. Their fingers touched and Jon noticed how her skin was cold and trembling. He sighed at it, watching her pulling her copper hair to one side before sinking into her mattress once more, turning away from him.

A wave of disappointment washed over him.

He returned the glass next to the pitcher set on her vanity before slumping back to his seat.

_She is not talking. Not this soon._

He rubbed his weariness harshly, part of him suggesting that perhaps it would be best to leave, but a dominant part of him wanted him to stay rooted next to her.

It was too easy to stay then.

He watched the back of her, rising and falling. An acute sense of reprieve washed over him.

_How close it was to losing her for good just hours before?_

The thought forced him to mull over many, many implications of the what-ifs. But all led him back to one conclusion -

He could not survive losing her.

All these whiles he thought they had just grown closer simply owing to the truth that they were the last of their family. Even with the involvement of Targaryen, he was still, a Stark. And they gravitated to one another because… they were family.

But now he realized that it wasn’t simply a weightless confession he had made earlier about no longer wanting to leave. It was her that made him not wanting to leave.

It was _her_ that shackled his existence here, in this castle.

She has become his truest North and he had been too careless not to name it earlier. 

The clarity offered him a rush of warmth coursing through his veins and he locked his gaze on the redness of her hair, anchoring his being to the present.

An immediate pining for her forced a moan to escape his lips and he saw her shoulder moved.

_She’s awake._

Mortified by his inappropriate reaction, he sought to diffuse the uneasiness with a question.

“You know what bothers me, Sansa?” He hunched down, elbows digging his knees while his fingers knot themselves together into a tight formation.

She didn’t turn.

“I am going to assume you are going to tell me the answer.”

He wanted her to turn to him.

“You didn’t flinch when the blade grazed your skin. You didn’t wince. You looked, perplexed at best.” Their voices low, as if more intruders were about to steal the shared little peace hovering between them.

“Tip of a blade is as good as an old friend to me Jon.”

Jon exhaled loud; his disapproval was clear even when he said nothing.

“An acquaintance then.” Sansa changed her remark.

“Not that I would inflict them upon myself.” She added before she buried herself further underneath the blanket.

Jon was at loss but not for long. Sansa began again.

“What is done to me, will stay with me forever. I could wallow in it, let myself be consumed thoroughly and perish, or I could learn to maneuver my life around it, then, perish. The latter seems to be a more practical choice.”

“I am not disagreeing with you, Sansa...” Jon pulled his chair closer. If Sansa did not wish to speak to him directly, he would take the second-best option he could afford.

Sansa squirmed beneath the covering for a moment before she nonchalantly freed her right hand, placing it on top of the fur. Jon’s gaze immediately fell unto it, noticing how the sleeve was pushed further up, no longer covering the length of her arm. He noticed the small ridges, old scars littered throughout the length and he swallowed his shock over the exposure.

“I hope these should enlighten you as to why I am very much opposed to the ideas of any suitors knocking their way into Winterfell. When the lords begin to whisper such, and I suspect it to happen soon, will you be my shield against those attempts?”

He nodded before he remembered she couldn’t see his reaction. “What do you want me to do?”

“Deter them without telling much.”

_How about letting me have the absolute right to protect you?_

The silence invited her to speak of her wishes clearer.

“Let us be honest Jon, who in their right mind would want someone marked as densely as me?”

She turned, finally, and the apparent grief reflected in her eyes made Jon wished Ramsay could rise from his death so he could have another chance to kill him.

“Who would want me for me? Not for Winterfell, not for the name Stark but for me?”

_I do._

_I want you._

But his lips were sealed, and he chose instead to simply listen.

“I suppose men learn how to share somehow along the way, but who would want Ramsay’s leftover? And I truly doubt I could carry a child so please lie or stall or anything, so such a matter will not find their ways to trouble me.” They were locked in a stare for a few stretched moments – hers was full of absolute certainty while his was tainted with hope for something she was not willing to consider.

She pushed herself higher, her weight resting against her elbow before smacking the pillow thrice with unnecessary force. She laid herself down – in a huff before shutting her eyes closed. 

Jon pulled her blanket higher, kneeling in front of her as he tucked her to sleep. Patting her side ever gently, he could see the lines on her forehead disappearing and he knew at least he was doing the right thing by staying.

Once he was sure she had slept, he leaned closer, kissing her forehead before he whispered,

“One day, there will be a man who will kiss all your scars and make you feel at ease”

He pushed her hair back, wanting not even a strand to cover her face.

“All you have to do is open your eyes.”

He waited; his face so close to hers before he heard her voice.

“I outgrew those tales, Jon. Of true love and knights. They do not exist.”

\-----------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of sort readers! Oh well, clearly I should move on to new series. But my babies want to hold on for some reason and well, who am I to deny them these moments? 
> 
> My newest offering to you, people that share my obsession. Happy Reading and leave comments if you feel up for it! 
> 
> (My plants are multiplying fast. I shouldn't be so shocked, right? I'm the one buying them non stop. Hehe)


	4. Confess...Confess

Jon had been quite…generous with his presence nowadays. Sansa looked down unto the little daisy she was stitching unto the sleeves of her favorite deep green frock. She noticed the one stitch failing to settle evenly with the rest of the threads making up one petal. She nicked it with the end of her needle, hoping to pull it back and redo it. But the thread crumpled tighter, forcing her to end it with a snip of her scissors. She exhaled the confusion rattling her head and pressed the green dress against her lap, sweeping a glance at her empty chamber before she allowed her mind to return to the very person who was interrupting her focus.

 _Jon_.

It seemed that his changes went unnoticed with the rest.

Not that she had any way to confirm so without raising questions.

He had changed, even more so than the time before the attack. And while previously he had indeed thawed out so much more than the Jon she came to know during wartime, these days, he seemed so light. So carefree. She gathered her forgotten little distraction into a ball before standing up and letting the scrunched clothing replaced her heat on the chair. Walking past the mirror, she was stalled by her own reflection.

She stared at herself, yet she saw him. She doubted even Jon would recognize himself should he see his own reflection staring back at him. He had stopped brooding and at times allowed some light teasing and banters to go back and forth between them even before the attack, but after the one night he spent in her chamber, there was newfound spring in his steps, constant humming in the air and little stars gleaming in his gaze whenever they met hers.

“I do not even know Jon knows…songs.” She said to no one.

Exhaling her curiosity in one long drawn-out breath, she picked the simple, thin golden ring from her jewelry box and put it on her finger, the one she had taken off before she started stitching. The spring was here, finally, and she could be without the thick black cape that was part of her armor she put on every morning. Today she had put on a simple dress that reminded her of her days in King’s Landing, but she had it made with colors from the North. Once she decided that this matter of Jon’s not so subtle changes should not have bothered her, she left her chamber, aiming to spend the rest of her day in her solar. She half expected Jon to be out of her chamber, waiting to escort her but he was not present.

It dampened her mood, and as she reached her solar and sat herself down, a random supposition appeared as an answer to her subject of musing. How could she miss it? She knew of such a thing, poured her heart and soul into attaining that very thing promised to her all her life until she chose not to believe anymore.

But just because she had turned into a non-believer, did not mean it should not happen, could not happen for the rest.

The purring bliss emanating from him could only mean one thing. 

“He is in love.” Saying it out loud sent a sprint of jealousy coursing through her veins.

_With whom?_

“With whom now?”

\-----------------

Hours had passed and yet she was still constrained in her solar, pouring over the responses from other lords over her insistence to rebuild the Northern’s naval fleet. The southern lords were suggesting that she was another power-hungry queen, said message hidden not well enough behind their strings of flattery and long-winded words while the northern lords were still considering it.

It was at this moment she felt so much for the two deceased Queens. To be Queen yet still having the responsibilities to humble yourself, even more, to appease the lords and stroke their egos over being head by a mere woman. She freed her hair from the intricate braiding, each of them tugging hard against her scalp and diverting the much-needed attention she wished to have to assuage all these lords. Her fingers combed through her hair, freeing it from stubborn knots before gathering it all in one hand and twisting it tight, pulling it to rest against her right shoulder. She brought her right hand closer to the source of light, counting the loose strands of hair wrapping themselves around her fingers and she knew without looking, that there were more of them on the floor. It was a sign of her nesting in her solar and doing what was expected from someone with her position.

She looked down; the red was truly vibrant against anything.

The small price of being responsible for the North.

A knock on the door just when she expected no one irked her to the bone. She expected more replies perhaps, finally arriving to add to her ever-growing pile of scrolls she needed to read. She reached for a fresh parchment – might as well finish drafting a response to each tonight.

“Enter.”

Someone entered and without looking up, she pointed to the pile.

“Leave them there. Thank you.” her voice was absolute with dismissal.

“Leave what where Your Grace?”

His voice startled her.

“Jon?” He shut the door behind him and bolted it.

Sansa looked at him, perplexed, watching him taking a seat next to her but not before picking a book from the shelf nearest to him. He sat down and flipped through the pages, stopping in the middle and read.

She doubted he had ever read the beginning of the book.

“Where have you been?” It was not as if this was new; they were so used to spending hours just the two of them but this, this felt different. Jon seemed different and it was very unsettling for her.

“Winterfell.” He answered, not looking up to her, seemingly enamored by the content of the book. 

The tense was surprisingly thick in the air, and with him ignoring her yet bolting the door, she was strung tight with suspicions, “Ah, how daft of me not to think of such!”

She could see him smiling, his cheeks rising before he lifted his head to finally meet her gaze. He was amused, and it baffled her even more.

“Go on, continue.” He pointed to the pile.

“I am here now.” He added before he once again hid behind the book.

\-------------

Her vision was blurred by minutes and after crumpling another failed attempt to be kind in her letter, she leaned against the back of her chair and sighed. Jon put his book on the table, standing and moving away from her. Before she could call him back, he returned with a blanket she had always kept in the solar, placing it neatly over her lap.

“Do you want to have supper?” he asked her, but his face was too close to hers that she, in return asked him a burning question she never had the courage to ask in daylight.

“Is it wonderful Jon? To be in love?”

\-----------

The blue in her eyes could not captivate him any more than he was already hers in his mind. The same blue could spell softness and torrents, a transition between the two made possible with a mere blink. The redness simply emphasized the change. She was the fire he wished to seek when he was cold, the winter he desperately clung to when the heat had become intolerable. She was one and she was everything he needed. Everything he had ever wanted. He had had his time to search and find, pull apart and put together what it was that he felt for her. It was certainly more than just a love one bore for kin. Certainly, different than one he had tasted before.

It was more, but not overwhelming. There was heat but it did not consume the very essence of him. He could be free with her, but should she choose to restrain him, he would have no qualm with it.

All these he had managed to put into words, thoughts that were solid and unbending. Tenets perhaps that he would abide for as long as he lived.

He had welcomed such realization with an assured, unchallenged clarity.

One question remained:

Does she share the same?

For him. 

To have her ask him such a question, he was instantaneously filled with anticipation that perhaps the willingness to discuss such matter was a sign that she was more open now to consider it as a possibility.

He failed, leisurely, to curb his smile while hope blossomed greatly, not knowing its limits. Fixing the drape of the blanket unnecessarily, he took his time, before returning to his seat, pulling it closer to her, the chairs’ armrests paralleled to one another in such close proximity yet stood as the one thing that separated their bodies.

“How would you define love?” he returned the question to her, leaning in, one finger pressed over his lips, his elbow stayed rested on the armrest. He watched her staring at him, judging his untraced audacity perhaps to be so close, so sudden.

Leaning back, away from him, a good measure between them before she picked up the piece covering her lap, freeing her gaze from his as she answered, “Something comfortable. A blanket you seek at night...” her voice trailing, not truly done, but no longer sure what could be an acute definition of the thing she had said she no longer wished for.

“Aren’t we comfortable with one another?” he asked.

She mulled over those words before she agreed. “Well, I suppose. In a way.”

“You want more.” His tone was suggestive. It was perhaps the freedom Sansa had allowed him that made him grew bold yet in a quite different direction of the Jon Snow he was forced to be once upon a time. The freedom allowed him room to breathe and to appreciate the littlest thing around him, made him grew more attuned with reading people and he had hold Sansa dearest to him – his most favorite, most precious book to read and reread.

The signs were there, all he needed to do was to pay attention and once he did, it could not be denied, Sansa cared for him more than she cared for the rest, more than anything.

But she was too good in denying herself him.

“It could not possibly be just a blanket,” she shook her head, a sliver of denial being laced behind a peal of shy laughter thrown at him before she reached for another letter. Skimming it through, she huffed wistfully before flicking it back on top of the table with her fingers.

“You want the kind of love that would burn the blanket.” Jon looked at her earnestly, his head cocked to one side as he willed her to spare a glance at him.

A rush of heat colored her cheeks and should he have any doubt she spared intimate feelings for her it was diminished right then and there. Sansa was cold, unsparingly cold when it came to these kinds of discussions, be it with him with others. Any attempts to go through them would be ended with the cold blue torrents aplenty at her disposal.

But rose-colored cheeks? Framed with fiery strands falling across it?

Beauty.

She tried. Tried her best to give him a stern look, “That is putting it wild. Presumptuous even.”

But at that moment, paired with the slight smile, the mischievous banter they always had between them yet lost for a while after the attack had returned. Jon would be too foolish to not answer accordingly. His voice dropped to a whisper, dripping with the heat he was feeling clamoring all over his body,

“I suppose a lot could happen to the said blanket.” 

If she was surprised with his sudden boldness she had done a fair job to keep it hidden.

“You look as if you have found one to share it with.” Eyebrows raised and she looked about ready to have him deny it. Her fingers were so close, hanging by the edge of the armrest. He looked down at each of them, long fingers that had once sewn his wounds close, wondering how she would react should he kissed each of them.

“Are you mad if I answer yes?” he finally answered.

“Why would I? I have been pestering you about it. Go on then.” Her lips were telling lies defied by the pain visible in her eyes. He could tell by the way she flung her gaze away from him. They were treading into unchartered territory now, both trying to be bolder than the other. It worked in his favor, this little back and forth they were doing could, if maneuvered well, offered him an absolute answer from her. He gathered enough courage to scoop her fingers in his hand. Immediately she moved to pull her hand away and in the same instant he simply loosened his grip; palm opened, inviting but not restricting. He could sense her hesitation, her hand hovered over his as if wanting to place it back but choosing not to.

He looked down at his empty hand before he simply decided he could not weather out this growing need to let her know how strongly he felt for her. 

“What if …” he paused, terrified that Sansa might despise him for it for she had made it clear before that she wished no longer to have any association with love or marriage. But this might be his only chance; he would be damned not to at least try. Exhaling his doubts, he continued, “…we share it with one another?”

“Jon, careful with your words.” Her voice stern but just prior there was a noticeable hitch in her breath, emboldening him even further especially when her hand fell back into his open palm. Little signs of yearning made visible by her body and yet her words, her lips said the opposite. 

“Sansa…You are not mad because I am being forward.”

His voice hushed, his hands grasping hers close. She took a deep breath as if trying to reign in the very obvious emotion spilling from her very expression.

“You are mad because I give voice to your most intimate wish.” His face was so close to hers now and if he dared, only if he dared he could have stolen a kiss or two, but he knew better not to.

She stared at him; lips parted. Shock perhaps for he wished so bad it was not outright rejection. It was the longest pause, broken by his erratic heartbeats and the steps outside the chamber.

The guards perhaps, waiting for Sansa’s order to drag him away and flung him to the Wall.

Whatever left of it.

Finally, finally, she blessed him with a response.

“I dare not to hope for any.”

A resounding no would have been easier to swallow. But this meant that she too wanted it, but choosing not to.

“Not even with me?” he asked.

“Especially with you.”

To it, he slackened his grip on her hand. 

His heart first skipped a beat.

And then it cracked. Deep ridges possibly the same length of the blades that had cut through him but more.

Dejected, he was about ready to let go and leave, but she pulled him back. Her fingers intertwined with his, and as he stood there in front of her, unable to move away yet had been denied the chance to stay, he asked her.

“Why?”

She made a gesture for him to return to his seat. He obliged, wondering if this was a second chance or just a prolonged pain. She pursed her lips; half a chortle escaped before she finally spilled.

“I know now it was a ruse, back then, with her. But still…” she left the sentence hanging, the same way she was hanging on to old forgotten pain.

Jon perked back at the explanation, shaking his head. To him, there was never a competition. It was guilt that drowned him. Guilt for choosing to fight using a method that consisted no honour in it, but Sansa did remind him to be better than Father, than Robb. And after, it was not that he did not feel for Sansa, but he was too obtuse to see it as a different kind of love that he had always harbored for her.

A realization that he hoped was not too late.

“You are still angry?”

“No,” yet her nails dug trenches into his skin.

He wanted to laugh at her antics. Saying something yet her body betrayed her in every way. The weight he felt earlier had disappeared, allowing air to fill his lungs gloriously. He brought her hands closer to his lips, kissing each slowly, stretching each contact before he returned his gaze unto her face, noticing how her cheeks were turning a shade closer to rouge with each passing second.

He was certain now that she felt the same. Chalked it up to old swirling jealousy and his idiocy that brought them nowhere despite the years spent shadowing each other’s movement. One hand he brought closer to her cheek, his thumb caressing the surprisingly beckoning shade and as she snuggled closer to his palm, eyes closed and her expression so tender, he knew for sure,

_She loves me._

“Pardon me but I think you are mad because it was not you. And forgive me, but I doubt you will tolerate anyone else unless it is you.”

She said nothing to it, but her eyes glistened with tears. A half nod, shy to admit it blatantly.

His smile was wide, and he laughed his doubts away, pressing his forehead against hers.

A long, freeing sigh, buying time to mend his temporarily broken heart before it finally felt whole again.

“What I am saying is, I would love to share the blanket with you.”

A smile bloomed and her gaze darted to his lips for a moment before she pulled him closer and sealed his request with a kiss.

\---------

When he said what he said, she could not believe it at first.

She had guessed it right.

He was indeed in love.

With her.

_With me..._

When she pulled him close she was aiming for a warm chaste kiss. Just one. Lingering, if she had sufficient courage. Innocent enough to conclude the promise. But as she pressed her lips against his, a different kind of hunger began to uncoil within her and she pressed for more, pulling him closer, hands grasping against the front of his clothes. He hesitated just for the tiniest fraction of a second before leaning closer, growling as he cradled the back of her head, a cushion of the sort as he too began to press for more. Between the awareness of how shallow her knowledge of physical union was when it was devoid of force, and the overwhelming needs to simply let him devour her, her head was spinning with the heated sensation of lips against lips, hands wild, roaming a path all over each other’s body.

She couldn’t think.

But he made her feel so much more.

So much that when he stopped for a breather, she could not help but feel mad.

“Don’t stop…” a mix between an order and a plead.

He hovered over her; his right hand had moved to grip the back of her chair with such intensity that suggested he was holding back. His other hand traced her cheek before trailing down to the neckline of her dress, not really touching her skin but she could feel hers burning for more. The look on his face made her knees weak, leaking with passion but withheld by a certain tenderness she had never known before.

“Do you…?” he could not finish his sentence. She stopped him, one finger tracing his lips and he let out a trembling breath before catching it between his lips and sucking it slowly.

Her eyes widen at the unforeseen reaction and she stilled herself.

Releasing it, he looked at her, the madness in his eyes only reflected hers. “Could we…?” he began again, and again, she stopped him.

“Yes.”

Gazes exchanged, of ones clouded with shameless needs.

“Yes Jon, please.”

He pulled her up, flushing the whole length of her body against his and she could feel him, all of him. It only spurred her for more, her body, her wants had taken control over her rational mind.

His lips coaxed hers to open, tasting her greedily and she wrapped her hands around him, fingers combing his curls, positioning her body better to feel his whole length. 

And when he moaned her name, how could she stop herself from wanting more? 

\--------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello and happy reading! leave comments if you are up for it. I love, love to read it.


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